


Heat

by tiger_moran



Series: Lyric [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Implied/Referenced Sex, Insomnia, Multi, Pre-Canon, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: First in a collection of standalone but also interconnected Moriarty and Moran fics inspired by lyrics from songs, particularly pop/rock songs.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Original Character(s)
Series: Lyric [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992709
Kudos: 4





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Soft Cell - Heat  
> In the heat of the night  
> In the glow of the light  
> It's the back and the bite  
> That's feeling alright  
> Do you use up bodies like cigarettes  
> Do you need them for ego  
> Do you need them for sex

It's hot here, even at night, and the darkness is full of sounds and texture, and it's humid, but he can't help himself, can't stop pacing around like a caged tiger, restless, not sleeping much, for when he does sleep his dreams are haunted by prowling beasts, by tiger-like creatures with the faces of men. He cannot help himself either, taking someone to his bed – rarely the same someone, though always someone obliging (for he is not _that_ monstrous) and he wants to give them pleasure, finding his own pleasure is immensely dependent on being able to give full satisfaction to the body beneath his, but often he will not remember their name after, if he ever knew it in the first place. Men, women, sometimes even those whose sex is rather more ambiguous, it doesn't matter. They are alive and they clutch onto him in the dark while the sweat trickles down his neck, down his back, and he spills between their thighs or down their throats or even deeper inside them and just for a moment or two he can almost believe he understands, truly, what it is to love someone.

That notion passes, always, of course, in the cold light of day, or very often long before the dawn comes.

He smokes furiously too, his cigarette ends glowing in the gloom, sitting, sometimes stripped to the waist, sometimes naked, smoking the cigarettes he carefully rolls himself, until only a stub remains, which he will drop down and grind beneath his foot. And still he does not sleep.


End file.
